Early next day Mrs. Berry bundled off to Richard’s hotel to let him know her determination.  She did not find him there.  Returning homeward through the park, she beheld him on horseback riding by the side of the identical lady.

The sight of this public exposure shocked her more than the secret walk under the trees...  “You don’t look near your reform yet,” Mrs. Berry apostrophized her.  “You don’t look to me one that’d come the Fair Penitent till you’ve left off bein’ fair—­if then you do, which some of ye don’t.  Laugh away and show yet airs!  Spite o’ your hat and feather, and your ridin’ habit, you’re a Belle Donna.”  Setting her down again absolutely for such, whatever it might signify, Mrs. Berry had a virtuous glow.

In the evening she heard the noise of wheels stopping at the door.  “Never!” she rose from her chair to exclaim.  “He ain’t rided her out in the mornin’, and been and made a Magdalen of her afore dark?”

A lady veiled was brought into the house by Richard.  Mrs. Berry feebly tried to bar his progress in the passage.  He pushed past her, and conducted the lady into the parlour without speaking.  Mrs. Berry did not follow.  She heard him murmur a few sentences within.  Then he came out.  All her crest stood up, as she whispered vigorously, “Mr. Richard! if that woman stay here, I go forth.  My house ain’t a penitentiary for unfort’nate females, sir”—­

He frowned at her curiously; but as she was on the point of renewing her indignant protest, he clapped his hand across her mouth, and spoke words in her ear that had awful import to her.  She trembled, breathing low:  “My God, forgive, me!

“Richard?” And her virtue was humbled.  “Lady Feverel is it?  Your mother, Mr. Richard?” And her virtue was humbled.

CHAPTER XXXVIII

One may suppose that a prematurely aged, oily little man; a poet in bad circumstances; a decrepit butterfly chained to a disappointed inkstand, will not put out strenuous energies to retain his ancient paramour when a robust young man comes imperatively to demand his mother of him in her person.  The colloquy was short between Diaper Sandoe and Richard.  The question was referred to the poor spiritless lady, who, seeing that her son made no question of it, cast herself on his hands.  Small loss to her was Diaper; but he was the loss of habit, and that is something to a woman who has lived.  The blood of her son had been running so long alien from her that the sense of her motherhood smote he now with strangeness, and Richard’s stern gentleness seemed like dreadful justice come upon her.  Her heart had almost forgotten its maternal functions.  She called him Sir, till he bade her remember he was her son.  Her voice sounded to him like that of a broken-throated lamb, so painful and weak it was, with the plaintive stop in the utterance.  When he kissed her, her skin was cold.  Her thin hand fell out of his when his grasp related.  “Can sin hunt one like this?” he asked, bitterly reproaching himself for the shame she had caused him to endure, and a deep compassion filled his breast.